
Glass- 






THE TRICOLOUR 



I 




Dora Sigerson 

FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY ROBINSON, DUBLIN 



•v 



THE TRICOLOUR 

POEMS OF THE 
IRISH REVOLUTION 



BY 

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER 



MAUNSEL AND ROBERTS, LIMITED 
DUBLIN 1922 






Copyright in the United States of America 
by Mitchel Kennerley, New York, 19 19 



EDITOR'S NOTE 

The publication of this book is a sacred 
obligation to one who broke her heart over 
Ireland. Dora Sigerson in her last few weeks 
of life, knowing full well that she was dying, 
designed every detail of this little volume — the 
dedication to the tricolour, and the order in 
w r hich the poems were to be printed. 

Any profit that may arise from the sale of 
the book will be devoted, as are all the copy- 
rights of the author, to a monument which she 
herself sculptured with a view to its erection 
over the graves of the " Sixteen Dead Men * 
when circumstances place their ashes in 
Glasnevin. 

The editor is indebted to the courtesy of 
Constable and Co., of London, for permission 
to reprint eight poems from " The Sad Years/' 
by Dora Sigerson. 



CONTENTS 





PAGE 


THE TRICOLOUR 


I 


THE SACRED FIRE 


5 


SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 


6 


CONSCRIPTION 


8 


SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 


9 


IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD 


12 


A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 


*5 


THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE 


*9 


THE WILD BEAST 


21 


THE WILD GEESE 


24 


THE QUEEN 


26 


THE CHOICE 


28 


THE OLD SONG 


30 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


35 


THE TREE UPROOTED 


39 


THE WREATH : EASTER, 1917 


4i 


THE PRISONER 


42 


OURSELVES ALONE 


44 


Kathleen's lover 


47 


THE FOE 


49 


EMPIRE BUILDING 


5° 


LOUD SHOUT THE FLAMING TONGUES OF 


WAR 56 


THE HILL-SIDE MEN 


59 


THE STAR 


61 


" TELLING THE BEES " 


63 


kittie's toys 


65 


THE STORY WITHOUT END 


68 


THE DEAD SOLDIER 


7i 



THE TRICOLOUR 



i 



About this time there was let loose a great 
tumult in the city. Fire and battle held Dublin 
for about a week, and then from out of it all, 
above the crash of falling houses and the roar 
of guns, over the crackling flames rose the 
tricolour, and for a few mad days it shone into 
the hearts of the people. 

And then a wounded prisoner of war, by the 
name of James Connolly, was slain, and so was 
disbanded the wonderful Citizen Army which 
had arisen from the awful conditions of bad 
housing and miserable wages so prevalent in 
Ireland. 

So Labour was shot down because it dared 
to be discontented with its fortunes. 

At the same time Pearse, the idealist, 
surrendered to superior forces to save his 
countrymen. 



THE TRICOLOUR 

And Idealism was shot down because it 
dared to dream greater dreams than were 
allowed to small nationalities. 

On Easter Monday Sheehy-Skeffington, the 
pacifist, was murdered secretly and without trial. 

Thus Peace was shot down by a lunatic, 
because it got in the way of militarism. 

So the bright flag fell from the high place 
where it had floated free. Yet what a trfW* 
colour were these three — Labour, Idealism, and 
Pacifism — how proudly it flew, so distinct in 
its colours, so perfect in its union, preaching 
its lesson for Easter to the people ! At Easter, 
the time of Resurrection, not of Death. Yet 
out of Death comes Resurrection. Who will 
take it upon himself to crucify Labour, since 
Christ was the Son of a carpenter ; Idealism, 
for Christ was an idealist ; Peace, for did not 
Christ our Lord say " Blessed are the peace- 
makers, for they shall be called the children 
of God " ? 






II 



Out of poverty and misery from some dark 
corner of the slums she had hurried at the 

Z 



THE TRICOLOUR 

sound of the shooting — the old woman who had 
no place in the revolution — where the young, 
the hopeful, the idealists were fighting. What 
could she do then, this weak and trembling old 
creature, this Sean-Bhean Bhocht, useless, and 
in the way in the gun-swept streets of the 
blazing city ? 

What did she deem her mission in the fighting 
world of soldiers ? What could she teach ? 

She was seen kneeling in the danger zone 
saying her rosary. What was she praying for 
at such a moment ? Was it for herself or for 
someone dear to her ? Listen, and I will tell 
you why she hurried her black beads through 
her fingers for fear God would not give her 
time to finish. Great was her prayer. She 
prayed for the success of the revolution. 

Think of it, meditate on this sacred prayer, 
for here is the spirit of Ireland. This is the 
spirit of patriotism — the love that survives all 
things. 

Without hope of gain, without hope of 
honour, without love of life, without fear of 
death, who mourned for nobody, for whom 
nobody would mourn, she knelt in the streets 
in the danger zone and prayed for the success 
of the revolution. 



THE TRICOLOUR 

With the fire in her old veins revived, with 
the patriotic heart, she, too, held her place in 
the ranks, hearing the wonderful call that had 
come to her countrymen. When all seemed 
quenched of youth and young heroic dreams, 
poor and nameless, she threw off the rags that 
poverty held about her and was beautiful in 
the tricolour of faith, hope, and love. 

Oh, Sean-Bhean Bhocht, the spirit of your 
land was not more fair than you — you who 
knelt in the gun-swept streets of your city to 
pray for the success of the revolution. 

She lay some hours later in the morgue, 
her chill hands still clasping her rosary beads 
folded over her brave, unconquered heart. 
God rest you, sister. Sleep well, nor dream 
that you have failed ; for such love as yours 
holds ever aloft the flag of liberty, and of such 
fine clay as yours is our island made. 



THE SACRED FIRE 

They lit a fire within their land that long was 

ashes cold, 
With splendid dreams they made it glow, 

threw in their hearts of gold. 
They saw thy slowly paling cheek and knew 

thy failing breath, 
They bade thee live once more, Kathleen, who 

was so nigh to death. 
And who dare quench the sacred fire, and who 

dare give them blame, 
Since he who draws too near the glow shall 

break into a flame ? 
They lit a beacon in their land, built of the 

souls of men, 
To make thee warm once more, Kathleen, to 

bid thee live again. 



SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 

Hark ! in the still night. Who goes there ? 

" Fifteen dead men" Why do they wait ? 
" Hasten, comrade, death is so fair" 

Now comes their Captain through the dim 
gate. 

Sixteen dead men ! What on their sword ? 

" A nation's honour proud do they bear" 
What on their bent heads ? " God's holy word ; 

All of their nation's heart blended in prayer" 

Sixteen dead men ! What makes their shroud ? 

" All of their nation's love wraps them around" 
Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud ? 

" Under the gallows-tree in prison ground" 

Sixteen dead men ! Where do they go ? 

" To join their regiment, where Sarsfield leads ; 
Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know. 

There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds" 
6 



SIXTEEN DEAD MEN 

Sixteen dead men ! Shall they return ? 
" Yea, they shall come again, breath of our 
breath. 
They on our nation's hearth made old fires burn. 
Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their 
death" 



CONSCRIPTION 

There is a shadow on the head I love, 
There is a danger lurks thy path upon, 
It murmurs low as coos the mating dove, 
It calls in grey and gathered clouds above, 
For thee, for thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan. 

It hides in seas that beat about thy shores, 
The wind in passing whispers and is gone, 
And the brown leaf no summer will restore, 
Flutters this cry on Winter's russet floor, 
Danger to thee, Kathleen ni-Houlihan. 

God of the seas disperse the gathered gloom, 
God of the skies smile her sweet path upon, 
God of the earth this danger swift entomb, 
Slay the wild beast that creeps to bring her 

doom. 
Save her, save her, Kathleen ni-Houlihan ! 



8 



SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 

Sick I am and sorrowful, how can I be well 

again 
Here, where fog and darkness are, and big 

guns boom all day, 
Practising for evil sport ? If you speak 

humanity, 
Hatred comes into each face, and so you cease 

to pray. 

How I dread the sound of guns, hate the bark 

of musketry, 
Since the friends I loved are dead, all stricken 

by the sword. 
Full of anger is my heart, full of rage and 

misery ; 
How can I grow well again, or be my peace 

restored ? 

If I were in Glenmalure, or in Enniskerry now, 
Hearing of the coming spring in the pine- 
tree's song ; 

9 



SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 

If I woke on Arran Strand, dreamt me on the 

cliffs of Moher, 
Could I not grow gay again, should I not be 

strong ? 

If I stood with eager heart on the heights of 

Carrantuohill, 
Beaten by the four great winds into hope and 

joy again, 
Far above the cannons' roar or the scream of 

musketry, 
If I heard the four great seas, what were 

weariness or pain ? 

Were I in a little town, Ballybunion, Bally- 
brack, 

Laughing with the children there, I would 
sing and dance once more, 

Heard again the storm clouds roll hanging 
over Lugnaquilla, 

Built dream castles from the sands of Killiney's 
golden shore. 

If I saw the wild geese fly over the dark lakes 

of Kerry 
Or could hear the secret winds, I could kneel 

and pray. 

10 



SICK I AM AND SORROWFUL 

But 'tis sick I am and grieving, how can I be 

well again 
Here, where fear and sorrow are — my heart so 

far away ? 



ii 



IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD 

I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains, 
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen ; 

I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield, 
Tramping the rough roads with him and his 
men. 



I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island, 
Watching the camp that the Williamites 
made ; 
I wish that my good gun was pressed to my 
shoulder 
And that my caubeen held the white cockade. 



I wish I were out with " galloping Hogan," 

Happy a guide for my hero to be, 
Encamped for the night on the Keeper 

Mountain, 
Ready to guard with the brave rapparee. 

12 






IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD 

I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen 
In the dark night when the battle began ; 

I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising 
" Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man." 

I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick, 
Holding the breach there and glad in the 
fight ; 
Ah, could I but see him, King William of 
Orange, 
With his troops defeated ready for flight. 

Had I but stood on the bridge of Athlone, 
there 

Flinging the plank and beam into the wave, 
Keeping the broken arch, as the last hero stood 

Fighting the fight of death, one of the brave. 

I wish I had fought in the flood of the Shannon 
With the grim Dutchmen, to conquer or 
. drown, 

Left without shot or shell by the false Maxwell, 1 
Into the deep had that traitor gone down. 

1 One Brigadier Maxwell, in the Campaign of 1691, 

13 



IN THE YEARS OF SARSFIELD 

I wish I had fought in the battle of Aughrim 
By the black bog on the side of the hill, 

Seeing there Ginkel's men fall to disquietude, 
Failing with Sarsfield meant living still. 

I wish I had flown with the Wild Geese across 
the sea, 
Knelt on red Landen's plain, facing the foe ; 
Holding the dear head of Sarsfield on my 
heart, 
Knowing from his brave blood heroes would 
grow. 

Ah y had I sailed to far France out of Galway, 
There on the deck with spy Maxwell to be> 

Bishop or Luttrell never had stayed me 
From " tossing the Scotsman right into the 
sear 1 

3 Macaulay's History of England, Ch. XVII 



H 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 



Is there no bond of blood to you, my brother ? 
We two have called her ours, the ancient 

Mother, 
And here we hope to rest from Life's 

temptation 
Building of souls our patriotic Nation. 



Can we not stand amongst the purple heather 
To find that God we -both revere together ? 
Beneath this sky can come no bigot preaching 
To fling our lofty dreams to lowly teaching. 



William or James, need we still hate each other 
For their dead sakes, my Irish-hearted brother ? 
Can w r e not pray without fear of dissension 
" God save our land " with but the same 
intention ? 

*5 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 

If we from Derry walls were flung defeated, 
And you from Limerick town in speed 

retreated, 
One God is ours no matter what religion, 
One land we love and shall not have division. 

Shall we divide ? Ah, better take the token 
Of Ireland's luqk and leave the shamrock broken 
Of one green leaf, when four brought joy 

upon it, 
As Ulster lost — from Munster, Leinster, 

Connacht. 

But Ulster lost with each green sod still crying 
For those dear dead who left us dreams 

undying 
Of Ireland's needs, O'Neill whose heart took 

fire 
And joined the sacred flames of Hugh Maguire. 

Shall we not cry " Lamh Dearg abu " and 

glory 
In Cromwell's fall, in reading Clonmel's story, 
Or by the " Yellow Ford " who cheered most 

loudly 
As hand from hand we passed the same flag 

proudly ? 

16 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 

Yea, we have gone with joyous hearts to follow 
Men of your thought by mountain, hill and 

hollow, 
Died for them, lived again, loved down the 

ages 
To bless them yet upon historic pages. 

Emmet and Tone ! Ah, half our pride up- 
rooted, 

We were but dead if we such names refuted, 

Our well-beloved, dear brothers of our 
Sireland, 

We call with them " For God and Holy 
Ireland." 

And do we mourn our Owen Roe less sadly, 
Or hold Lord Edward's claim more loved or 

gladly, 
Because of " popish " ways of Owen's praying, 
Or Edward went to other altars straying ? 

Do we forget or could our fond faith slacken 
A patriot's glow in owning Joy MacCracken, 
Who Belfast-born has helped the island's story 
And shed from Antrim's hills a sunrise glory. 

17 B 



A CATHOLIC TO HIS ULSTER BROTHER 

Mitchel or Meagher ! Ah, hear the dear 

names falling 
On no deaf ears, we welcome to you calling, 
11 O dead long gone, O dead of recent slaying, 
From your chill hands we take the banner, 

praying." 

Where this dear land forbids us to forsake her, 
Join with the one sweet voice to the same 

Maker, 
" Our hate is one, our love is one the other, 
Lead on ! or follow, O my Irish brother." 



18 



THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE 

[IN MEMORY OF THOMAS MACDONAGH] 

Some on the pleasant hillside have thought 

they saw thee pass, 
As flings a cloud before the sun a shadow on 

the grass, 
They praised thy fairness and held dear thy 

meekness and thy grace ; 
They only saw thy shade, Kathleen, they did 

not see thy face. 



Some on the purple mountains stood to see 

thee speeding by, 
As glides a sudden golden shaft across a 

stormy sky ; 
And these were braggarts of their love within 

thy dwelling-place ; 
They saw thy beauty, Rosin Dubh, they did 

not see thy face. 

*9 



THEY DID NOT SEE THY FACE 

But some in flames of battle strove their 

slender weight to throw 
Against the bayonet and the gun that hid thy 

only foe ; 
They left for thee their earthly loves, these 

heroes of thy race, 
And died, as all must die, Kathleen, who once 

have seen thy face. 

So must thy grief be ever new who holds a 

love like this, 
That thrusts away a dear one's heart, a little 

child's soft kiss, 
That leaves behind an honoured home, a 

Mother's fond embrace, 
Till others seek again, Kathleen, to see thy 

hidden face. 



20 



THE WILD BEAST 

One spring as I went walking 

By budding leaf and thorn 
To see the sun a-shining 

Upon an Easter morn ; 
My hound she gambolled by me, 

Oft hunting in her play 
Some small thing in the hedges 

She found upon her way, 
How splendid was her going, 

How happy was her joy, 
I felt I could not chide her 

Nor dared her play destroy. 

Yet oft I called " Come hither, 

I fear lest thou displace 
Some hidden beast or reptile 

All savage for the chase." 
I scarce had spoken to her 

And turned again for tow T n 
When we were in the shadows 

And fog and mist came down, 
21 



THE WILD BEAST 

When from the gloom and darkness 

Some lion voice did roar. 
He sprung upon our pathway 

To stand our road before. 
I cried in vain contention, 

" O, let us go our way." 
But to our further progress 

The red cat stood at bay. 
My hound would not obey me, 

So brave and fine was she, 
But sprang upon the wild beast 

To fight for liberty. 



Oh, how my heart was beating 

So full of grief and fear 
At thunder of the battle 

That fell upon my ear. 
Oh, great and splendid fighting 

Like to the times of Fionn, 
Alas ! uneven chances, 

My dear one could not win ; 
And sudden to a silence 

I opened eyes of pain, 
With face towards her foe still 

My faithful hound was slain. 






THE WILD BEAST 

But she has left behind her 

A son of splendid race, 
And he shall bound before me 

And take the other's place. 
So I can go a-walking 

'Mid budding leaf and thorn 
To see the Sun a-rising 

Upon an Easter morn. 



23 



THE WILD GEESE 

" Wild Geese are very numerous in this district, 
especially around Lough Esknahinny" — " Cork 
Examiner" December 12, 19 16. 

I walked by Esknahinny at the waning of the 

moon, 
As star by star came peeping to some celestial 

tune. 
The little waves crept to me to call and fall 

away, 
O, lone I was and lonesome to meet the 

breaking day. 



■ 



I heard wind voices whisper and leaned to 

hear them speak ; 
I saw the moving shadows — and feared to turn 

and seek. 
The slender reeds were shaking between me 

and the light, 
And loneliness fell from me with the treasure 

of the night. 

24 



THE WILD GEESE 

I heard dark wings flap by me towards the 

rising sun, 
Dear birds so swift in passing I blessed them 

every one. 
The wild geese had come back again, they 

passed me in the night. 
Between me and the waning moon I watched 

them in their flight. 

I had walked the paths of Kerry and dared 

not say the word ; 
I had trod the roads of Leinster all broken by 

the sword. 
O Ulster, Munster, Connacht, He gave Who 

can restore, 
The Wild Geese, the Wild Geese, they have 

come home once more. 



2 5 



THE QUEEN 

I saw her many years ago, my gladness and 

my grief. 
She stood amongst the barley fields to bind 

the wayward sheaf. 
She walked upon the mountain's side to draw 

the brown turf home, 
She planted many famine crops within the 

peaty loam. 
From rugged rocks and silver shore she 

gathered grey sloakeen. 
She made the green earth brown again, and 

made the brown earth green. 
She wearied in those striving years from 

morning until night. 
Her fields grew white, her stately home shone 

in the morning light. 
But O, those hours of yesterday, mo storeen 

and mo crie, 
I saw her turn her face away to hide her grief 

from me. 

?6 



THE QUEEN 

I flew to her a while ago, my thousand joys — 

so dear ; 
For ruin fell upon her house and I was full 

of fear. 
I saw wild fury seize her home, I heard a red 

wind scream, 
I saw the groaning roof- tree fall, the flame on 

wall and beam. 
I fell upon the broken way, struck down by 

chill despair : 
" My life's long love, my only joy, my dear 

beyond compare, 
A thousand souls will bleed with mine, a 

thousand hearts expire, 
To see so fair a form as thine upon a martyr's 

fire." 
From out the glow, from out the flame, from 

ruin fierce and wild, 
I saw her come with dancing feet and glad 

face like a child, 
Her red-gold hair, her snow-white brow, her 

gown of silken green : 
Out through the ruins of her home, she walked 

as would a queen. 
Ni Houlihan, Ni Houlihan, she came a splendid 

queen. 

2 7 



THE CHOICE 

This Consul Casement — he who heard the cry 
Of stricken people — and who in his fight 
To lift the torture load from broken men, 
And shield sad women from eternal night, 
Went through lone, hot, and fevered foreign 
lands. 

For doomed Casement, slaves that he raised up 
Pray with strong voices, so a wide world hears. 
Men saved from anguish, women saved from 

shame, 
He dried your children's tears ! 
He gave you life — for him lift pleading hands 






Sir Roger Casement; honoured for his years 
Of stress and struggle, of fatigue and work, 
What is the claim of his frail human needs 
For arduous hours he did not shun nor shirk, 
A King's reward, a royal friendliness ! 

28 



THE CHOICE 

For honoured Casement titles and renown, 
A future great with promise, all life's page 
Writ in gold letters, and a path so soft 
One could not hear the coming of old age 
To point an honoured tomb that nations bless, 

Ah ! Irish Casement, in the roar of war 
That stung his blood and whipped his man- 
♦ hood's fire, 
What did he hear upon red shaken earth, 
Where little nations struggle and expire ? 
Some banshee cry upon the hot wind thrills ! 

And Roger Casement — he who freed the slave, 
Made sad babes smile and tortured women 

hope, 
Flung all aside, King's honours and great years, 
To take for finis here a hempen rope, 
And banshee cries upon far Irish hills. 



29 



THE OLD SONG 

When I was a young lad of happy sixteen 
There came to my window the Cushla-mo- 

chree, 
And the song that she sang was the song of 

the wind, 
And the song that she sang was the song of 

the sea. 



• c And will you come with me, a vie and a 

stor ? 
And will you come with me, alanna ? " she 

cried, 
" O, my father will rage and my mother will 

mourn, 
If I take to the mountains to march by your 

side." 



" O, your father must rage and your mother 

must sigh, 
But I bid you follow and I am your queen." 

3° 



THE OLD SONG 

O, I stole from my window I held her so dear, 
And I followed the wave of her garments of 
green. 



My father did rage and my mother did sigh, 
" Your way will be hard and your heart it will 

break, 
Your feet will grow weary, your cheek will be 

pale, 
If you go to the mountains for Grannia Wad's 

sake." 



My years waned in prison, my rough bed was 

hard, v 

When I was a freeman my blood it was cold : 
I met her, my true-love ; I made her my wife : 
O, home- weary was I because I grew old ! 



O, the years flew in passing in peace and in 

rest, 
And I watched my young son as he leaped 

and he ran, 

3 1 



THE OLD SONG 

O, proud was my heart as I dreamed me a 

dream, 
I would wed him to fortune when he grew a 

man. 

But when I was dreaming one eve in my chair 
There came to the window the song of the 

sea, 
The song of the mountains, the song of the 

wind, 
And my son rose and answered, " Who calls 

upon me?" 

" My son, if you listen your mother will 

mourn, 
Your father will rage, and your cheek will 

grow pale, 
Your wife will be grieving, your child weep 

alone, 
If you follow the singing of poor Grannia 

Wael." 

As he would not hear me his mother did 

mourn, 
His child wearied for him, his wife's cheek 

grew pale, 

32 



THE OLD SONG 

He was shot without pity at dawn of the day, 
And the last words he spoke were, " God 
bless Grannia Wael." 



My grandchild is troubled, he calls from his 

sleep, 
" Ah, Gran'father, Gran'father, what does she 

say ? " 
" O, little one, little one, rest you secure, 
The wind on the window it calls in its play. 



" O, little one, little one, hush you and sleep, 
'Tis the song of the wind and the cry of the 

sea." 
" O, gran'father, gran'father, when may I go ? 
'Tis the voice of poor Grannia Wael calling to 

me. 



" O, your path will be rough and your prison 

bed hard, 
Your heart will be broken, your cheek will 

grow pale, 

33 C 



THE OLD SONG 

You will die on the gallows when life is yet 

young, 
If you list to the singing of old Grannia Wael." 



" My path may be rough and my prison bed 

hard, 
But my heart will be glad and my soul shall 

not quail, 
I shall die on the gallows with joy and with 

pride, 
And my last breath shall whisper, * God bless 

Grannia Wael/ " 



34 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

With a knock upon the window comes the 

young volunteer, 
'Tis his step upon the threshold ; " what is it 

brings you here ? " 
" Oh, will you up and follow, swift as the 

homing swallow, 
By mountain hill and hollow ? " said the young 

volunteer. 
Said the brave volunteer, said the loved 

volunteer, 
11 Oh, will you up and follow with the true 

volunteer ? " 

Oh, I will not rise and follow with the young 

volunteer, 
With my pockets full of money and my house 

so full of cheer. 
Why should I go a-tramping, with cold and 

windy camping, 
On all my pleasures stamping with the young 

volunteer ? 

35 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

With this wild volunteer, with this strange 

volunteer, 
Why should I go a-tramping with this young 

volunteer ? 

With a knock upon your window comes the 

young volunteer, 
'Tis his step upon the threshold, what is it 

brings him here ? 
" Oh, rise and march together, in shine or 

stormy weather, 
With hopes you cannot tether," said the young 

volunteer. 
Said the brave volunteer, said the loved 

volunteer, 
" Will you up and march together ? " said the 

true volunteer. 

Yea, I will rise and follow with the young 

volunteer, 
And open is my doorway, oh, welcome is he 

here. 
Yea, I will go a-drilling, how gladly and how 

willing, 
With all my pulses thrilling, for the young 

volunteer, 

36 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

With the brave volunteer, with the loved 

volunteer, 
Oh, gladly go a-drilling with the true volunteer. 

Oh, fool, to rise and follow with the young 

volunteer, 
Content we were and happy till he came calling 

here. 
Thus all our prospects blighting, what is the 

use of fighting ? 
We go with foe uniting, not with this volunteer, 
Oh, this false volunteer, oh, this mad volunteer, 
All our placid progress blighting comes this 

wild volunteer. 

Oh, since you will not follow with this young 

volunteer, 
To fight for home and freedom, what are you 

doing here ? 
Why were you still delaying, thus your 

motherland betraying, 
While he rose her voice obeying did the young 

volunteer, 
Did the true volunteer, did the loved volunteer, 
While you were still delaying died the brave 

volunteer. 

37 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

'Tis a ghost and but the shadow of a young 

volunteer, 
He is dead and stilly sleeping, what should be 

haunting here ? 
'Tis but the storm winds flutter old dreams 

you dare not utter 
And false the hopes they mutter, and pale the 

volunteer, 
'Tis a dream volunteer, yea, a dead volunteer, 
Old leaves that fly and flutter round a dead 

volunteer. 

Oh, be he ghost or shadow of a lost volunteer, 
Though sad this heart and grieving, still 

welcome is he here, 
The greater his recruiting, who fell from 

cowardly shooting, 
I stand to him saluting, oh, my brave volunteer. 
Oh, the dear volunteer, oh, this true volunteer, 
All the greater the recruiting of this dead 

volunteer. 



38 



THE TREE UPROOTED 

IN MEMORY OF ROGER CASEMENT 

The earth-bound giant now is free, is free ; 
The last fight over, and the last moan still ; 
No tale of snow-clad heights where great 

dreams be, 
His exile heart can thrill. 

Ah ! how he cried with groaning branch and 

bough, 
For that far land beyond the sunshine morn, 
For that last joy tilled earth will not allow, 
That land where he was born. 

Ah I how his heart that fought for freedom 

pined ; 
His leaves, like restless fingers, tried to hold 
The trailing garments of the passing wind, 
His struggle manifold. 

39 



THE TREE UPROOTED 

The four winds heard and strove with mighty 

hands 
To bear him back to that far northern height 
Where he was born ; loosed from his earthly 

bonds, 
He poised, a moment's flight. 

Then to the wind in passionate embrace 

His branches moved — out sung his parting 

breath. 
He leaned to freedom from his prison place, 
Whose freedom was but death. 






Better so lie, from this dire bondage free, 
O ! heart, who knew the silence of the snows, 
Than stand alone, O solitary tree ! 
Where English greenwood grows. 

Better to die than live in dull disgrace, 
O ! soul that dreamed the glory of the dream ; 
To be for sparrows but a resting place, 
Who heard the eagles scream. 



40 






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A Monument to Padraic Pearse and his Comrades, 
shot in Easter Week, 



DESIGNED AND SCULPTURED BY DORA SIGERSON 



THE WREATH 

[EASTER, 19 17] 

Here on my path by some hard fate struck 

down, 
When life at last held out full hands to me. 
When the great dreams of younger years awoke 
And dear, dead voices whispered " Liberty.'' 
Ah, cruel blow, from which I stricken rise 
And blindly stagger fro that path again, 
To wonder if 'tis worth the striving now, 
Thus robbed upon life's highway and half 

slain. 

Here I awoke to fear again the dead, 
Whose tender faces held me as I slept. 
Ah, well I knew who leaned above me there, 
Into whose arms so pitifully I crept. 
And I awoke, for Spring did cry, " Arise, 
For birds within the green woods carol clear." 
Then Easter came with wreath of lilies pale, 
Placed on my heart the grief of yester-year. 
4i 



THE PRISONER 

All day I lie beneath the great pine tree, 
Whose perfumed branches wave and shadow 

me. 
I hear the groaning of its straining heart 
As in the breeze its thin leaves meet and part 
Like frantic fingers loosened and entwined ; 

I hear it whisper to the sighing wind, 

II What of the mountain peaks, where I was 

born ? " 
As sharp tears drop I feel its falling thorn. 

I see in the far clouds the wild geese fly, 
Homeward once more, free, in the storm-swept 

sky. 
Back to the land they loved, all, all, have gone, 
How swift the flight by joy and hope led on. 
" What of the mountain land where I was 

born ? " 
I cry, they pass, glad in the dawning morn, 
Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad 

hill, 
And give no thought for one imprisoned still 

42 



THE PRISONER 

All day I lie beneath the sad pine tree, 
Whose groaning branches wave and shadow me, 
Chained to the earth, the dark clay of the 

grave, 
In helpless fashion feel its wild heart rave. 
" Free, set free," I hear its moaning breath, 
Where liberty means naught, alas, but death 
Ah, freedom is but death. 



43 



OURSELVES ALONE 1 

One morning, when dreaming in deep medi- 
tation, 

I met a sweet colleen a-making her moan. 
With sighing and sobbing she cried and 

lamented ; 

II Oh, where is my lost one, and where has he 

flown ? 

" My house it is small, and my field is but 

little, 
Yet round flew my wheel as I sat in the sun, 
He crossed the deep sea and went forth for my 

battle : 
Oh, has he proved faithless — the fight is not 

won ? " 

And then I said : " Kathleen, ah ! do you 

remember 
When you were a queen, and your castles were 

strong, 

1 Sinn Fein Amhain. 

44 



OURSELVES ALONE 

You cried for the love of a cold-hearted 

stranger, 
And in your fair island you planted the wrong ? 

" And oh/' I cried, " Kathleen, I once heard 

you weeping 
And sighing and sobbing and making your 

moan. 
You sang of a lost one, a dear one, a false 

one — 
* Oh, gone is my blackbird, and where has he 

flown ? ' 



" Ah ! many came forth to the sound of your 

crying, 
And fought down the years for the freedom 

you pined. 
How many lie still, in their cold exile sleeping, 
Who sought in far lands your lost blackbird 

to find ? 

" And many are caught in the net of the 

stranger, 
And all but forgotten the sound of your name, 

45 



OURSELVES ALONE 

For other loves call them to help and to save 

them : 
They fell to dishonour — we hold them in 

shame. 

"Oh, why drive me forth from your hearth 

into exile 
And into far dangers ? Your house is my own. 
Faithful I serve, as I ever did serve you, 
Standing together, ourselves — and alone." 



4 6 



KATHLEEN'S LOVER 

I would I had a thousand tongues 
To sing thy praise, to sing thy praise, 
I'd teach the birds on ev'ry tree 
To chorus the sweet melody, 
For all my days, for all my days. 
I wish I had a thousand tongues 
To curse thy foe, to curse thy foe, 
Fd pray each stormy wind and wave 
His house to break, his ship to stave, 
To lay him low, to lay him low. 

I wish I had a thousand hearts 
To love thee more, to love thee more, 
Lest one should break before thy tears 
Let others come to hush thy fears 
And thee adore, and thee adore. 
I wish I had a thousand hearts 
To hate thy foe, to hate thy foe. 
Lest one should dare in pity turn 
Let others still with vengeance burn 
To lay him low, to lay him low. 



KATHLEEN'S LOVER 

I wish I had a thousand hands 

To work for thee, to work for thee, 

To bring thee fairest fruit and flower, 

To pluck for thee God's golden hour, 

To set thee free, to set thee free. 

I wish I had a thousand hands 

To strike thy foe, to strike thy foe, 

I'd track him without rest or sleep, 

My arm were strong, my thrust were deep 

To lay him low, to lay him low. 

I wish I had a thousand lives 

For thee to live, for thee to live. 

In foreign lands in ev'ry state 

My days, my years, to make thee great 

Fd freely give, so freely give. 

I wish I had a thousand lives 

To thee to fly, to thee to fly ; 

To praise, to strive, to fight, to fall, 

And on thy name and God to call, 

For thee to live, for thee to die. 



4 8 



THE FOE 

My foe did strike me, Lord, I am not meek, 
I cannot turn to him the other cheek, 
Rather to Thee for vengeance do I cry, 
Tooth for a tooth, dear Lord, eye for an eye. 

Had he but felled me, giving blow for blow, 
My rage had little flame, my hate were slow, 
I could forgive stood he to me alone, 
But through those dearer souls he reached my 
own. 

Oh, brave heads slain, grey locked and darkly 

brown, 
I saw you bleed beneath the martyr's crown, 
Dear eyes that closed on unfulfilled desire, 
I saw you robbed of your celestial fire. 

Pale lips that cried one prayer in parting 

breath, 
I knew you dumb in silence and in death. 
My foe hath struck me, Lord, I am not meek, 
I cannot turn to him the other cheek. 

49 D 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

Somehow I never liked you, John, your ways 

were crude : 
Your smile was pharisaical, your manners rude ; 
Although you prospered well in worldly things, 
Ay, were on nodding terms with Czars and 

Kings, 
I seem to see the counter and the store, 
And all the shopman's manners learnt before 
You donned the regal robes of finer folk, 
And in your brain the strong desire awoke 
To play the master where you were the man, — 
Plain Hodge, make blue the plebeian blood 

that ran 
To warm the grocer of those early days, 
Who sanded sugar and who mixed his tea 
Before he bowed in Sunday sanctity, 
With that lank Scotsman who your partner was. 
Ah, no, I never liked you, John, because 
You were a braggart and a pharisee, 
Held many slaves, yet prated " Liberty." 

50 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

Your sweated people toiled to make you great, 
Swept out your store and laboured long and 

late. 
Their pay was poor, their faces lined with care, 
Of all good things you took the lion's share. 
In foreign lands, half naked, they slaved on 
To gather gold to heap your plate upon ; 
You'd swagger past, proud of their dull amaze, 
In Royal purple, eager for all praise. 

Oh, long ago, when you were yet a boy, 
You always took the other children's toy ; 
And you were best at playing games of bluff, 
And no one liked you, John ; your ways were 

rough. 
I well remember Kate, who lived next door, 
Her pretty eyes and snowy pinafore, 
Which oft you would mud-spatter and then 

call : 
" Oh, see the dirty girl," to one and all. 
A jealous and a greedy boy you were, 
And loved to make a spectacle of her, 
Because she never liked you, John, since you 
To her sweet garden forced your rough way 

through. 

51 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

She heard you beg : " Oh, Father, let me go ; 
Til teach her how to make the white flowers 

grow." 
And always since I hear the same old cry : 
11 There's none so good, so fine, so brave as I. 
Ay, even when I roam to some far spot 
'Neath Eastern skies, by world and time forgot," 

I see the dusky people creeping by, 
Alarmed to hear your shout of " I, I, I." 

II I'll show them how, I'll tell them what, and 

why ; 
I'll bid them how to live, and how to die." 
And when I, yawning, seek some further shore, 
Some Indian strand, I hear your voice once 

more : 
" I'll teach them how to work, and how to 

pray." 
Oh, John, you never think before your day 
Rome was, Greece was — can one believe it 

true ? — 
Great Egypt died, and never heard of you ! 

How all the small folk hated you, big John ! 
As you grew fat their little pastures on ; 
And yet they quailed before you, or your state, 
And walked behind you — all save little Kate ! 

52 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

She could not tame you with her gentle ways 
Yet her right anger filled you with amaze. 
When she would face you, giving jeer for jeer, 
You struck her down, and laughed to see her 

tear. 
With her great heart for pity not too strong, 
Yet not too weak for anger at the wrong 
You loved to plague her with, as when a child 
You gave her grief if e'er you thought she 

smiled. 
You snatched her flag, her gun, her little ships — 
The very bread that touched her parted lips ! 
Her pretty chainey and her shining glass, 
And all that took your greedy eyes, alas ! 
Then with rough promise sought to still her 

cry, 
And named her "Vixen " to the passer-by. 
Ah, with what care a seething pot you'd brew 
A bitter draught none mixed so well as you ; 
You'd force her take, so, weakened, you might 

cry : 
11 She's ne'er contented, yet how good am I." 



The little Church wherein she loved to tell 
Her pretty beads, I do remember well, 

S3 



EMPIRE BUILDING 






How you would push her out, and there 

would stay, 
With eyes uplifted, as you seemed to pray — 
Ah ! when, indeed, I most mistrusted you 
Was when you prayed, whose Trinity I knew 
The scrubbing brush, the belly, and the purse, 
All badly served. Your cleanliness a curse 
Of little minds, that have no thoughts to fill 
The chambers of their brain, and have no will 
But service to the petty things of life, 
Destroy sweet Calm with their incessant strife, 
Cleaning, yet never clean, they ever seek 
To whiten sepulchres. Your table rude 
With all its ill-prepared and heavy food 
To feed your dull yet eager appetite. 
Your purse well filled can shrink or can expand 
To thirty silver pieces in your hand. 

Yet, John, I must admit in many ways 
You have your virtues not devoid of praise. 
Could I forget sweet Kate who lived next door, 
With sweetest eyes and snowy pinafore. 
She was of finer clay — a child of dreams 
Who knew the secret songs of hills and streams. 
Made from the passions of the four great seas, 
Lithe as the swaying of the storm-swept trees, 

54 



EMPIRE BUILDING 

Sweet as the heather-bell on moorland height, 
Blue were her eyes, her hair a clouding night. 
What knew you, Hodge, of such a one as this, 
Whose lips were lewd and had a ploughman's 

kiss ? 
She'll never love you, John, howe'er you smile — 
A sour grimace that hides the deeper guile. 
Too often you her tender heart betrayed 
For her at last to listen unafraid 
Of some new plan to strike her down again, 
To break her heart in plotting for your gain. 
Yes, as I love her, John, I you despise 
And loathe you for the sorrow in her eyes. 
Ah, no, we'll never like you, Hodge, your ways 

are crude, 
Your smile is pharisaical, your manners rude. 



55 



LOUD SHOUT THE FLAMING 
TONGUES OF WAR 

TA'N SIONAC AR SRAIDIB AG FAIRE GO CAOCRAC 

Air— " The West's Asleep." 

Loud shout the flaming tongues of war. 
The cannon's thunder rolls afar 
While Empires tremble for their fall. 
Thou art alone amongst them all. 
Where is the friend who for thy sake 
Will on his sword thy freedom take ? 
The son who holds thy right alone 
Above an Empire or a throne ? 

Ah, Grannia Wael, thy stricken head 
Is bowed in sorrow o'er thy dead, 
Thy dead who died for love of thee, 
Not for some foreign liberty. 
Shall we betray when hope is near, 
Our Motherland whom we hold dear, 

56 



THE FLAMING TONGUES OF WAR 

To go to fight on foreign strand, 
For foreign rights and foreign land ? 

The Lion's fangs have sought to kill 
A Nation's soul, a Nation's will ; 
From tooth and claw thy wounded breast 
Has held them safe, has held them blest. 
About thy head great eagles are, 
They fly with scream and storm of war, 
Their shadows fall, we do not know 
If they be friend, — if they be foe. 

For Lion's roar we have no fears, 

We fought him down the restless years. 

We watch the Eagles in the sky, 

Lest they should land — or pass us by. 

But, yet beware ! the Lion goes 

To strike our friends — to charm our foes. 

By hamlet small, by hill and dale 

The creeping foe is on our trail ; 

His face is kind, his voice is bland, 
He prates of faith and fatherland ; 
Shall we go forth to die and die 
For Belgium's tear, and Serbia's sigh ? 
Oh, Volunteers, through field and town 

57 



THE FLAMING TONGUES OF WAR 

He seeks his prey, he tracks thee down 
His voice is soft, his words are fair, 
It is the creeping foe, Beware ! 

Ah, Grannia Wael, in blood and tears 

We fought thy battles through the years, 

That thou shouldst live we're glad to die 

In prison cell or gallows high. 

Oh, cursed be he ! who to our shame 

Drives forth thy manhood in thy name, 

O, WHILE THE LION LAPS YOUR 

BLOOD 
SHALL WE UNITE IN SERVITUDE. 



58 



THE HILL-SIDE MEN 

were my heart a little dog 
Fd call it to my side 

To hold it with a silken lead 
And would not be denied. 

For O it wandered far from me 
By mountain, vale and glen, 
How glad it marched the weary miles 
Amongst the hill-side men ! 

Ah, were my heart a singing bird 

1 would not let it free, 

It dare not dream of sunrise skies, 
Or chant of liberty. 

For, ah ! it sprang cloud high to sing 
From mountain, vale, and fen, 
When first it heard the secret drums, 
The hearts of hill-side men. 
59 



THE HILL-SIDE MEN 

My hopes are lost, my dreams are fled ; 
How lone are vale and fen ! 
My heart lies cold within the grave 
That holds the hill-side men. 



60 



^ 



THE STAR 

[IN MEMORY OF PATRICK PEARSE] 

I saw a dreamer, I saw a poet, 

On the red battle-field fell my slow tear, 

"Lover of birds and flowers, singer of gentle 

songs, 
Dying with men of war, what do you here ? " 
Languid his closing eyes looked to the breaking 

dawn 
Where the young day peeped out through 

prison bars, 
11 1 on a high hill stood singing a dear old 

song, 
I fell to earth," he sighed, " grasping at stars. " 

He laid him softly down, cold was his paling 

cheek, 
Silent and chill he grew as the dead are, 
But from his folded hands on to the crimson 

earth 

61 



THE STAR 

Glowing and shimmering fell a great star. 
Out of the heavens there came a hand raising 

it, 
Set in the green sky for all to see, 
There it shone purely bright, faithful as 

planets shine, 
There it sung loud and sweet, " Come, follow 

me 



62 



" TELLING THE BEES" 

This is the son of the white morning singing, 
Combing her silken hair's simmer of gold, 

All of her slenderness wrapped in a gossamer 
Green of the dawning sky, dear to behold. 

" When the lime is in blossom the bees are 
busy, 
Summer has come with her honey-sweet 
mouth ; 
The lime is in bloom and the hive it is silent, 
Come little bees from the North and the 
South ! 

" Gather your store when the red sun is 
shining, 
Gather the harvest so that you may feast, 
The hive is nigh empty, the Queen she is 
weeping, 
Come little bees from the West and the 
East." 

63 



"TELLING THE BEES " 

I saw one go in the pale of the dawning, 
In a fair May-time a-telling the bees, 

Tapping the hive there she told of men dying, 
Many a dear name she called to the breeze. 

They are coming, the bees, for the time is in 
blossom ; 
They are coming, the bees, from the West, 
South, and East ; 
They hum " donas Sasan," they hum " Sonas 
Eireann, 
We gather the honey, prepare for the feast.' y 



6 4 



KITTIE'S TOYS 

a child's song 

[written for kathleen] 

I wish I had a soldier, a soldier, a soldier, 
I wish I had a soldier to fight for love of me 
Marie has a soldier, a soldier, a soldier, 
Marie has a soldier, a gallant man is he. 

I wish I had a bright flag, a gay flag, a dear 

flag, 
I would love a fair flag to fly in liberty, 
Gretchen has a big flag, a brave flag, a strong 

flag, 
Gretchen has a fine flag that floats all high 

and free. 

I wish I had a small ship, a strong ship, a 

good ship, 
I would love a trim ship to sail upon the sea, 
65 E 



KITTIE'S TOYS 

Johnny has a big ship, a grey ship, a grand 

ship, 
Johnny took my small ship with all his big 

navie. 

I wish I had a penny, a penny, a penny, 

I wish I had a penny that all belonged to me, 

I would build a fair house, a great house, a 

strong house, 
I would make one grand house for all the world 

to see. 

But Johnny stole my penny, my penny, my 

penny, 
And Johnny took my bright flag that floated 

fair and free, 
Then Johnny had my small ship, my trim 

ship, my good ship, 
And Johnny broke my soldier that fought for 

liberty. 

Now John would be my soldier, my soldier, 

my soldier, 
But John he is a greedy boy, a selfish boy is 

he ; 

66 



KITTIES TOYS 

And Johnny beats the wee ones, the small 

ones, the weak ones, 
He takes their playthings from them in the 

name of liberty. 

When Johnny gets a whacking, a whacking, a 

whacking, 
When Johnny gets a whacking, I think he'll 

let me be, 
And I shall have my penny, my penny, my 

penny, 
And I shall buy a bright flag to wave in 

victory. 



6 7 



THE STORY WITHOUT END 

Before my time my kindred were 

As felons in their land, 
Because they claimed the liberty 

That freemen understand. 

Ere I was born in Dublin town 
Men's hearts were still aflame ; 

They spoke of Allen and O'Brien, 
And whispered Larkin's name. 

When I slept on my mother's breast, 

A little babe, and frail, 
Young Duffy's hearse went slowly by : 

He died in Milbank Jail. 

When I could read, I spelt and knew 

The lives of patriot men ; 
When I could write, my pencil traced- 

" A Nation Once Again." 
68 



THE STORY WITHOUT END 

I learnt of those who often knew 

The baton and the cell, 
Who asked for right by peaceful means — 

O'Connell to Parnell. 

And once when thro' the cheering streets 
Some " felon " homeward came 

I lit, amongst the gayer lights, 
My candle's tiny flame. 

When I was but a tiny child 

I ran by Kickham's side ; 
I heard his bitter story told 

In reverence and pride. 

And when with years he passed away. 
When life was young and fair, 

I stood upon time's crowded path, 
And met O'Leary there. 

I saw with pity and amaze 

A craven party go, 
Obedient to a Scotsman's word, 

For Parnell's overthrow. 

6 9 



THE STORY WITHOUT END 

Before Kilmainham's bloodstained walls 

I stood all cold and still ; 
I lived through all the awful night 

That shadowed Pentonville. 

If thus o'er one life's blotted page 
Some neutral soul should bend, 

He'll read to-day — as yesterday — 
The story without end. 



70 



THE DEAD SOLDIER 

[IN MEMORY OF THOMAS ASHE] 

Where the sword has opened the way the man 
will follow 

" Look ! they came, the triumphant army ! 
Over yon hill see their weapons peeping ! " 
Still I spoke not but my wheel sent turning, 
I closed my eyes for my heart was weeping, 
My heart was weeping for a dead soldier. 



Who is he who looks towards me ? 
* 'Tis no man but a gay flag flying," 
Red was his mouth and his white brow 

thoughtful, 
Blue his eyes — how my soul is crying, 
My soul is crying for a dead soldier. 

7* 



THE DEAD SOLDIER 

" Kneel ye down, lest your eyes should dare 

them, 
Kneel ye down and your beads be saying." 
" Lord, on their heads Thy wrath deliver," 
This is the prayer that my lips are praying, 
My heart is praying for a dead soldier. 

11 Best cheer the path of the men victorious, 
For he is dead and his blade lies broken, 
His march is far where no aid can follow, 
And for his people he left no token, 
He left no token, the dead soldier." 

The way of the sword a man can follow, 
See the young child with his gold hair gleaming. 
When falls the oak must the acorn perish ? 
He lifts the blade and his eyes are dreaming, 
He dreams the dream of the dead soldier. 



THE END 



